Rise in the Dying: The 66th Hunger Games
by resoundingyes
Summary: It's the dawn of the 66th Hunger Games. Last year a District Four volunteer, Finnick, made history by becoming the youngest victor ever, winning his games in a record-making four days. Now, the Capitol is thirsty for more. Does your tribute have what it takes to win it all? CLOSED SYOT
1. Introduction

**Welcome to the Sixty-Sixth Hunger Games!**

I started reading SYOT's a while ago, and I've been dying to write my own! It's a bit different than what many may be used to, though. I have created a system of points to keep the abilities of submitted tributes in check in the most canon-friendly manner possible.

Tributes are now granted a set number of Trait Points and Skill Points to spend. What Traits and Skills you spend them on is entirely up to you. The point limit varies depending on the tribute's age and district. A link to a pair of charts depicting how these traits are given can be found within the form on my profile.

Trait Points are used on four different Traits: Agility, Strength, Intelligence, and Persona. Skill Points are used on two different Skills: Weapons, and Survival. How you decide to use these points will help or hurt your tribute in the arena in a number of ways. Here's how they work:

* * *

Traits:

 **Agility** : This is the measure of your tribute's ability to move quickly and easily. It is a combination of a person's balance, coordination, reflexes, and speed. Your tribute's agility will determine how fast they can run, how easily they can sneak and avoid detection, and their ability to dodge attacks. Typically, smaller tributes have better agility, while larger tributes will have a disadvantage in this area.

0: Very low agility.

1: Low agility.

2: Average agility.

3: Above average agility. Able to dodge some projectile weapons.

4: Excellent agility. Can dodge most attacks with ease.

 **Strength** : This is the measure of your tributes physical power and muscle mass. Your tribute's strength will determine their endurance, which affects how long they can run or fight without exhausting themselves. It also affects their ability to lift and carry weight, climb, and deliver powerful blows. A tribute with low strength may be unable to successfully wield heavier weapons such as swords and maces. Strong tributes are typically larger due to their increased muscle mass, and thus may have more difficulty with agility.

0: Very low strength, likely due to malnourishment.

1: Low strength.

2: Average strength.

3: Above average strength.

4: Excellent strength.

 **Intelligence** : This is the measure of your tribute's intellectual power. This will determine their ability to successfully strategize, make good decisions, solve problems, and memorize data. Younger tributes typically have lower intelligence, while tributes from Three have the highest intelligence.

0: Very low intelligence.

1: Low intelligence.

2: Average intelligence.

3: Above average intelligence.

4: Excellent intelligence.

 **Persona** : Any tribute who wants sponsors in the arena will take time to find a persona that works for them. A good persona is district, memorable, original, and portrays the tribute as interesting and charming. A tribute with a strong persona will be very popular will the Capitol audience. Be mindful that a high Persona score will get your tribute lots of sponsors, but will also put a target on their back. Tributes who hope to lie low in the arena will have a low Persona score.

0: Poor or no persona. Possibly cried or was nearly silent throughout their interview.

1: Weak persona. Easily forgettable.

2: Average persona. A bit generic, perhaps, but most of the audience will remember their name.

3: Above average persona. Unique and interesting, gained a modest number of sponsors.

4: Excellent persona. Flashy and original, with a large following in the Capitol.

Skills:

 **Weapons** : This is the measure of your tribute's experience and prowess with one or several weapons. Careers dominate this field even more than they do the others, as it is illegal for other districts to have access to and train with weapons. For non-careers, the few days they have for training before the games are likely their only opportunity to learn to use these weapons.

0: Very low weapons skill. Normal for a non-career who avoided weapons entirely in training.

1: Low weapons skill.

2: Average weapons skill. Normal for tributes from Four.

3: Above average weapons skill. Normal for tributes from One and Two.

4: Excellent weapons skill.

 **Survival** : This is the measure of your tribute's ability to survive in the wilderness. It determines their ability to hunt and scavenge for food, locate water, start fires, find shelter, perform first aid, and recognize flora as either poisonous or beneficial. Tributes with high Survival skill are less likely to die from exposure, dehydration, starvation, or accidentally consuming something poinsonous. Tributes from urban districts typically have lower Survival skill.

0: Very low survival skill. Normal for tributes from urban districts who avoided survival stations in training.

1: Low survival skill.

2: Average survival skill.

3: Above average survival skill.

4: Excellent survival skill.

* * *

By using this system, I will be able to fairly determine what tributes would win in what fights, or die in certain situations, instead of killing them off at random. It also makes it easier for me to determine a fair training score.

I know this is new, and maybe a bit confusing, but I hope you can give it a chance. If you have any questions, please just ask! The submission form can be found on my profile. Make sure you read the rules first!

 **May the odds be ever in your favor.**


	2. District Two Reaping

**District Two Male**

 **Cassian, 18**

* * *

 _His father's body swings, suspended from the balcony above by a rope around his neck. He's still alive, choking repulsively, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. He reeks of booze, and something else - the putrid odor nearly knocks Cassian off his feet. Shit and piss; the stench of death. Beside him, Iver screams._

 _"Your fault." His father croaks. The rope is crushing his airway, but somehow he forms the words. "Your fault."_

 _Blood dribbles down the corner of his mouth, more and more until Cassian realizes this isn't his father anymore; it's a man, a criminal, his first human kill test, and Cassian has forced his sword through his gut, lifted him up off the ground with nothing but the blade. Blood, hot and wet, drips down the handle, soaking his hands, and his muscles burn but he holds his grip firm until the man's body goes still. Cassian watches the life leave his eyes with grim satisfaction._

 _Soft footsteps approach him from behind. He pulls his sword from the man's corpse, turns and swings blindly at his attacker. The blade cuts through the sturdy white armor, and Cassian meets his mother's warm brown eyes behind the Peacekeeper mask._

Cassian wakes, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. He hasn't had a nightmare like that for years, since his Field Exam. He tries to process it, but the memory of the dream slips away from him, leaving behind a troubling sense of unease.

Only five days ago he was told he would be going into the arena, but he'd known long before that. He had known the day his grieving father squandered their fortune on booze and hung himself, leaving Cassian with no family and no home to call his own, that the games would be his only salvation from a life of poverty. The Centre became a beacon of light in the darkness, both a home and a family and an outlet for his helpless anger and frustration. They told him to take that fury, that cruelty, and use it. From it, he draws his ambition, his unending drive to achieve above and beyond what is expected, crushing his opponents without mercy.

He's always known he would be the chosen volunteer, and he always knew he would win (he doesn't allow himself to even consider the alternative.) But lately he has been thinking about what happens after, and it's hard for him to even imagine. The Centre took his broken pieces and glued them back together with promises of fame and glory, but it's only a temporary fix. He fears that, once the final cannon sounds, he won't hold together any longer and will come ripping apart at the seams. His desire for the crown is what has kept him together all this time; once his prime ambition is achieved, what will come next for him? Once he's reached the top, he fears the only place for him to go will be down.

His stomach grumbles loudly, interrupting his train of thought. It's only four in the morning, and he's already starving. But before he earns his breakfast, he's got to go on his hour-long morning jog.

Cassian is one of the first ones to the track, which is just the way he likes it. He gets going at a casual pace, giving his muscles some time to warm up. He's not that fast of a runner, too much muscle bulk slowing him down, but he has great endurance and can run very long distances with ease.

Some ways ahead of him, Oriana, this year's female volunteer, is running at a much faster pace. She's definitely quicker than him, but has less stamina. If it came down to it, she could outrun him in the arena, but in a chase he would catch up to her once she tired out - not that either of them would run from a fight. They're careers, not fucking outliers.

He continues to analyze her as they run, silently critiquing her form (not that there's much to critique; it's nearly flawless) and searching for weaknesses to exploit. He's not being subtle about it, either - it couldn't hurt to psych her out a bit before the real thing starts. But every time he tries to get closer, she speeds up.

"Come on, what are you running from?" Cassian taunts.

Oriana ignores him completely. Cool and collected as ever, he supposes. Cassian could never pull off a stoic persona like that, but it works for her. Even when they were younger and just starting the Program, he remembers her being that way. He wonders what it would take to make her snap, how far he would have to push her.

Their hour is up around the same time, but when he goes to follow her out, a trainer, Tavia, gives him a look. "What?" Cassian says, feigning innocence. "I'm just going to get breakfast."

"How about you drop and give me fifty, first." She tells him, crossing her arms. "I don't think you've earned it yet."

Cassian huffs, but does as he's told. By the time he's done, he's hardly even breaking a sweat. If she really wanted to punish him, she'd make him do sprints or run the agility course, something that would be an actual challenge for someone of his build. It's the day of the Reaping, though, so she lets him off easy. Cassian stands at attention, waiting for dismissal.

"Save it for the arena, Cassian," Tavia says. "Or at least after the Reaping."

"Yessir." He says, and shoots her his trademark dazzling smile. She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches upwards.

"Get outta here, kid."

He clears out, taking the quickest route to the cafeteria. He lines up to get his daily oatmeal and protein shake, shoving a couple of younger kids out of the way. One of them starts to protest, until their eyes catch the golden bead on his Centre bracelet, designating him as this year's volunteer. They shut their mouth quickly, stepping back without another word. Aggression is always encouraged in the Centre, but only an idiot would mess with a volunteer.

On the way to his table, he passes by a pair of girls yelling at each other. He recognizes them - Nikita and Rhea, both seventeen and fighting hard to beat out the other for the spot in the arena next year. It doesn't take long for the shouting match to escalate into a full fight, and Cassian has to sidestep out of the way to avoid getting caught by a stray fist. He sits at a table and turns his seat to face them, sipping his protein shake as he watches it go down.

Rhea's a good fighter, quarry-strong and proud, but she's no match for Nikita. Cassian watches intently as Nikita breaks her down, bit by agonizing bit. He can't look away. Nikita is stunning, blood staining her dark skin, exuding power from every pore. By the time the trainers decide to interfere, Rhea's arm is hanging uselessly by her side, bent at an unnatural angle, and Nikita probably has a minor concussion but other than that she's unscathed, smiling in light of her victory.

"Son of a bitch, did I miss it?"

Enoch, a guy in the age bracket below him, slides into the seat across from him. Cassian forces himself to look away from Nikita's retreating figure as she goes off to medical, and nods. "Maybe if you got up on time, you would have seen it."

The younger boy shrugs, spooning some oatmeal into his mouth. "I need my beauty sleep."

Cassian scoffs, shaking his head. It's a miracle Enoch has made it this far in the Program - he obviously doesn't give a shit wether he makes it into the arena or not. He'll be cut sometime soon and sent to the Peacekeeping Academy. Maybe that's what he's aiming for.

Cassian would rather die than go down that route. Both his parents had been Peacekeepers, and it had resulted in sad, miserable deaths for the both of them. His mother had done her twenty years out in Seven, then came back home to Two to start a family, but when they needed her again in Twelve and she went without question. She was loyal until the very end, when she died of some awful lung disease, leaving eleven-year-old Cassian alone with his heartbroken father.

He sure as Snow doesn't plan on following in their footsteps - he is going into the arena. And he is going to win.

* * *

 **District Two Female**

 **Oriana, 18**

* * *

Oriana wants nothing more than to pick up a knife and carve a dummy to pieces, but the trainers won't let her. She's already tried twice this morning to sneak into the weapons room, with no luck. The trainers are convinced she'll overexert herself and pull something, but she hasn't been training for years just to throw her shoulder out the day of the Reaping and be replaced by her backup. Besides, Oriana has never been one to lose control.

The bloodlust nags at her like an itch she can't quite reach. It's unbearable. Her last kill test was over a year ago, and she still dreams of the satisfying sound of her axe splitting open the criminal's skull. In just a couple days, she will have a chance to taste that pleasure again, but for now she has to be patient. Before she can get into the arena, she has to volunteer. Before she can volunteer, she has to sit in a chair for an hour and have her hair and makeup done. It is what it is.

"You're twitching." One of the trainers comments. Oriana has been shaking her leg without realizing. It's a nervous tic they trained her out of long ago, but apparently the stress of the upcoming Reaping has caused it to resurface. She stops, but shoots the trainer a sideways glare. Such a blatant display of disrespect would normally never go unpunished in the Centre, but as this year's chosen volunteer she can get away with a bit more than she usually would. Besides narrowing his eyes a fraction, the trainer does not react. He's likely seen his fair share of arrogance during his years working at the Centre, and knows better than to give Oriana the reaction she wants. His air of superiority annoys her to no end. She knows she is better than him. He's just a washout, a nobody who didn't make the cut because he wasn't good enough to represent his district in the arena. Now he's here, bossing her around.

Oriana's mentor, Brutus, has actually been where Oriana is right now. He was thrown into a merciless arena and escaped with his life, and became one of the greatest victors the Centre has ever produced. He has continued to make his district proud outside the arena by mentoring, and has already pulled two victors through. If Oriana wins, she will be his third. She hasn't met him yet, and won't until they get on the train, but she can't wait. Sure, he's more brawn than brains, which is pretty much the opposite of Oriana's strategy, but he has invaluable experience mentoring than could save her in the arena. She has nothing but respect for him.

"All right, you're done." The stylist says, finally lowering the makeup brush. Oriana turns to look in the mirror, and is very happy with what she sees. It is only the Reaping, so the look is quite natural, with just a dash of golden eyeshadow and a rosy tint for her lips. They've left her short, brown hair loose and wavy. The brown cream they had been caking on earlier has given her golden skin the illusion of glowing, and she likes it a lot. What they will do to her in the Capitol will be much less... muted. So she should enjoy this while she can.

She's tempted to ask the time, but decides against it. They've been doing this for decades - surely they'll get her to the Reaping Square on time. The thought of missing the Reaping still nags at the back of her mind, unrealistic as it may be.

Two trainers escort her down to the main entrance where they meet up with Cassian. He sidles up next to her and shoots her a grin that she's sure is meant to be unsettling, but she ignores it easily. He'll have to try harder than that if he wants to get under her skin.

Something tells her he doesn't plan on giving up any time soon.

* * *

 **District Two Male**

 **Cassian, 18**

* * *

The twittering escort decides to pull the males first this year, not that it makes any sort of difference. She unfolds the paper slip, and reads the name aloud.

"Iver Cheng."

Cassian doesn't even make the connection, at first. The escort asks for volunteers, and he's counting down the standard three seconds before he volunteers when he realizes who has been reaped; Iver, his old friend, the only constant in Cassian's life for so many years, until he failed his second animal kill test at thirteen and got cut from the Program. If Cassian were a lesser person, he would have choked up, maybe even hesitated. But Cassian is the best of the best, the strongest the Centre has to offer, and he says the words calm and proud, just as he has practiced for years: "I volunteer!"

The crowd cheers and parts to let him through. He takes his time walking up to the stage, his gait languid and comfortable, because he has practiced this just like he has everything else. Once on the stage, he smiles to the crowd, and another round of applause commences. He catches the image of himself on screen - beside it is Iver, standing with his fist over his heart, a sign of respect in Two. Cassian quickly looks away.

"And your name, young man?" The escort asks, holding up the microphone to him.

"Cassian." He answers. Two volunteers never have surnames - they give them up at thirteen, when they recite the oath giving themselves to the Centre, to District Two and to the Capitol. As far as the Capitol and any of the other districts are concerned, Two volunteers have no family, no past before the arena. Cassian almost wishes that were true.

* * *

 **District Two Female**

 **Oriana, 18**

* * *

The girl they call starts crying immediately. Oriana doesn't turn to look at her - she's got her eyes cemented to the stage, waiting with bated breath for the escort to call for volunteers - but from the pitch of it she imagines it's a twelve-year-old, young and incredibly stupid. Does she not realize what district she's in? This is Two, for Snow's sake. They aren't going to send a helpless little kid into the arena like some barbaric outlier district.

"Will there be any volunteers?" The escort asks.

They're supposed to wait a moment or two before volunteering, to increase the drama, but the girl's wails are only growing louder and Oriana just really wants her to stop. "I volunteer!" She cries immediately.

Onto the stage she goes, the crowds cheers drowning out the little girl's sobs. She takes her place beside Cassian. He towers an entire foot over her, their height difference painfully apparent on the screens. He's grinning like an idiot.

"And what is your name, love?"

"Oriana." She answers proudly.

The thunderous answering applause echoes in her ears, and Oriana basks in it. This is exactly where she belongs.

* * *

 **District Two Male**

 **Cassian, 18**

* * *

Cassian fully expected to spend his few minutes in the Justice Building alone with his thoughts. Instead, Iver shows up in the doorway, face flushed.

"Can I come in?" He asks.

"Sure." Cassian answers, sounding much less thrown off than he actually is.

Iver shuts the door gently behind him, and smiles at Cassian like it's been days since they've last seen each other, instead of years. He's grown up tall and wiry, and looks like he's working on growing in a mustache but failing miserably. "I knew it would be you." He says. "I know how much you wanted it... so I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." Cassian says. There's more he wants to say, but he can't put the words together.

"I definitely didn't think it would be me, though." Iver says. "Getting reaped, I mean. I almost had a heart attack."

It's such an Iver thing to say, Cassian can't help but chuckle. Iver's eyes light up at the sound, and his shoulders relax a bit.

It's strange. Iver looks like he hasn't changed a bit - he's still got that mischievous glint in his eye, a carefree smirk on his lips despite everything Cassian knows he has seen - but Cassian is an entirely different person. Iver was his first, last, and only friend, and he was rough and tough enough to make it through the first couple years in the Program, back when it was just training disguised as fun and games, but he wasn't broken enough, like Cassian, for the Centre to mould and to warp into a unrepentant killer. Iver had barely made it through the animal kill test that qualified him to move into the Centre full-time, while Cassian had passed with flying colors and only wept once afterward. Cassian had tried to help his friend, but it was no use. Iver was cut after his second animal kill test, when they gave him a kitten and told him to snap it's neck with his bare hands and he refused.

Cassian has killed a squirrel, a puppy, and a chipmunk, murderers and thieves and a mother and a father and by this point having blood on his hands is more familiar than not. Iver was weak and Cassian was strong and he obeyed and now he's here, on his way to victory and eternal glory, and Iver is not.

Iver says something that he does not hear. Cassian sits, still and silent and seething. Iver comes to the realization his presence is no longer welcomed.

"I'll be betting on you." Iver says, and leaves.

Cassian is grateful for the silence.

* * *

 **District Two Female**

 **Oriana, 18**

* * *

The room they lead her into in the Justice Hall is very quiet and plan, a nice place for her to sit down and think. Oriana isn't sure if her parents are going to visit her or not. She would understand if they didn't, but if they did they wouldn't be unwelcome.

At that moment, the giant oaken door creaks open. An old man with a cane walks in. She doesn't recognize him at first, until she realizes with a start that this is her father. He'd been nearing his mid-fifties when she said her final goodbyes to him and moved into Residential at age thirteen, and he'd been going grey then but now what little hair he has left is wispy and white. The lines in his face are deep, the skin sagging and worn, and as Oriana's mother walks in behind him, she sees that they have both aged tremendously. She does the math in her head, and realizes that her father is around sixty, and her mother only ten years younger. It's a shock, definitely, but even more unnerving are the grim expressions they wear as they approach her.

Oriana stands, tilting her head in deference, and her mother sighs wistfully. "Look at how strong you've grown." Mother says. Even her voice sounds old and tired. "And so beautiful. You look just like your Aunt Priya."

Mother talked proudly and often of her dead sister when Oriana was young, glorifying Priya's honorable sacrifice in the games. Oriana had always assumed she had died in some epic fight. She was twelve, memorizing the names of fallen tributes in preparation for her test to enter Residential, when she discovered there had been no battle. Priya had burned alive in a volcano explosion that wiped out half the career pack in the 50th. It had been the whim of the gamemakers, not a worthy enemy's sword, that had killed her.

"Thank you." Oriana answers, polite but distant.

Mother smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. Father only stands, his knobby fingers clenched around the handle of his cane, face stoic. No one speaks, and the silence drags on. Oriana had thought speaking with her parents for the first time in years would be a bit uncomfortable, but nothing like this. The silence is maddening. Is her father really just going to stand there?

"Well?" She says, her voice climbing up an octave. "Don't you have anything to say? Aren't you proud of me?"

"Of course we are, sweetheart." Her mother says softly. "We just - well, we didn't really expect this to happen."

This is not going the way she had expected. Not at all. Oriana normally has no problem keeping her cool - she's learned to conceal everything, because there will always be someone waiting to take advantage of her weakness - but in this moment she lets go. "What the hell do you mean?" She says. "You didn't think I was good enough to make it this far?"

"No! It's just that, after Crispin, we'd thought you would come back home." Her mother says, backpedalling. "He was born for the games, he was our sacrifice and... we didn't think we'd be making another."

Oh. So _that's_ what this is about. She should have known he'd come up. Just two years ago, her parents had been standing in this same room with her brother Crispin. As Oriana and the other trainees watched his games in the Centre, her parents had been watching from their couch back at home. They'd both sat through the nail-biting final showdown as Crispin and Gloss fought for their lives. He had been so, so close to victory, but Gloss skewered him with his spear and it was all over.

"You thought wrong." Oriana says, her voice cool and deadly. "His death didn't scare me off. It woke me up. It made me realize that I have to win this game, not only for myself, or for the pride of my district, but for him. There are other ways I could service my district and my Capitol, but there is no greater honor in this world than becoming a victor, and that honor _will_ be mine."

They will never understand. She knows that. Her father got cut from the Centre at sixteen after failing his Field Exam, and had happily enrolled in the Peacekeeper Academy. Her mother had lasted longer in the Program, all the way until eighteen, but when it was down to her and two other girls the trainers decided she didn't have what it took to win. Oriana does, though, and so did Crispin. She is going to win.

She has to.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I planned on doing the reapings in order once I got all of my tributes, but submissions have slowed and I still haven't received a District One Male. I had this chapter done already, so I figured why not post it? If you liked it, please submit me some tributes! As of right now, I have ten spots open, and one reserved.**

 **The more detail your submission has, the longer your tribute's POVs will be. I'm just trying to do my best with what I am given.**

 **HUGE shoutout to Lorata, from whom I gleefully stole almost all of my District Two headcanons. She's absolutely amazing.** **If you haven't read any of her stuff, please do so NOW (I've read all of it at least twice.) The lovely Nikita was borrowed from her, with permission. If you're curious about her fate, check out Lorata's story Fixed to a Star.**

 **I also drew inspiration from azelmaroark on LiveJournal, who has some amazing stuff about District Two, particularly Cato and Clove.**

 **Leave a review letting me know what you thought about this chapter, and the tributes! Cassian was submitted by Nia Irial, and Orina was submitted by Longini48.**

 **UPDATE 7/11 : Changed a small detail that was bugging me. Expect the next chapter soon!**


	3. District One Reaping

**District One Female**

 **Divine, 16**

* * *

Rays from the rising morning sun pour into the room through Divine's open window, warming her face and filling her small dorm with light. She would normally be awake by this time, doing her morning exercises, but the trainers must have let her sleep in this morning. A nice gesture, she supposes.

Divine rises, stretching her tired muscles and padding over to her small dresser. Inside are two clean training uniforms, a nightgown, and a bag of toiletries; her only worldly possessions. She pulls the nightgown over her naked body, grabs the toiletries, and heads down the hall to shower.

The shower room is large and entirely open, with mirrors covering the walls from floor to ceiling. She vaguely remembers the anxiety of her first couple showers here, back before the trainers erased any trace of body shame from her. They made sure stripping down in front of strangers is as natural for her as breathing, and she does so now without hesitation. The water is icy cold, so Divine washes herself as quickly as she can. It's a strange sensation, still, lifting her newly large breasts to scrub the skin underneath. She had always been flat chested, all the curves the trainers wanted, but no breasts to speak of, until they pulled her out of training a month ago and put her under in the medical wing. She woke up three cup sizes larger and with eyes three times greener. All the girls in the Academy who make it to fifteen get body enhancements, because those not going into the arena get sold to the highest bidder in the Capitol. The better the body, the higher the price, so the Academy goes all out on the enhancements to rake in the maximum profit.

She shuts off the shower and stands there for a moment, shivering and staring at her reflection in the mirror. She's gorgeous, the prettiest her age, with perfectly balanced features and long strawberry locks. Naturally, her hair is more of a soft honey blond, but the trainers decided she looked too much like the most recent female victor from One, Cashmere, and dyed it to give it a reddish hue. They insisted the alteration would help her stand out, make her look like something fresh and new in the eyes of the Capitol, but it's only been two years since One's back-to-back victories in the 63rd and 64th. The demand for yet another victor from One is going to be slim to none this year, and there's nothing Divine or the trainers can do about it. She has resigned herself to the fact that she is going into the arena to die. It's not an uncommon attitude for the female tributes from One to have. They all know damn well by the Reaping that whatever awaits them in the arena has nothing on what happens after the victory trumpets.

Someone approaches from behind her. Divine turns around to face her sister, Mina. They're calling her Sequin now, she's heard. That's... well, she's heard the Academy give worse names, but it's still not great. It doesn't sound right for her. She's too soft, her cheeks still round with youth, for something that sounds so sharp and snappy - though, Divine notices, she has a hard look in her eyes, cold and unfamiliar.

It's been three years since they've last spoken, and Sequin feels like a stranger. Attachment to others is frowned on in the Academy, so shortly after the girls were selected they had agreed it would be best to avoid each other. Saying goodbye had been like cutting out a piece of her heart, and as Divine now looks at her sister, she feels a strange phantom pain in her chest.

"Hey, Bean." Divine says, though she knows she shouldn't. An old childhood nickname like that is definitely off limits, but a sadistic part of her wants to see how her sister reacts.

The effect is immediate. Sequin tenses, her nose crinkling. "Don't call me that," She hisses. "Don't make this harder than it already is. Don't try and make me start to miss you right before I have to say goodbye."

That stings, more than it should. Sweet little Mina is dead after all, gone and buried like Hannah before her. Now, there is only Sequin and Divine. Strangers.

Divine takes her time wrapping herself in a towel before responding. "We said goodbye a long time ago, Sequin. We don't need to do this."

"I know. I have something to give you before you go. For your token." Sequin offers her hand, where a simple black cord choker rests in her palm. Divine doesn't recognize it at first, but then it clicks; this belonged to their mother. It's of no particular value, but neither of them have seen her for years. Careers aren't supposed to have families or a past before the Academy, so contact with outsiders is forbidden for trainees. Divine takes the gift, running her still-wet fingers over the leather.

"How did you even get this?"

"Not important." Sequin says. "I came here to tell you to win. They said they'd let me out if you do, no strings attached."

Divine forgets all about the necklace in her hand. Her eyes shoot up, meeting Sequin's for the first time. She searches them, trying to figure out if this is some sick joke or twisted lie. All she can detect is honesty, and a hint of desperation.

"Bullshit." Divine snaps. "They took Gloss the year after Cashmere. Why would you be any different?"

"I've heard rumors about it happening before," Sequin insists. "Praise told me his mom got out after her sister won."

"But he still ended up in the Academy, didn't he?" Divine says, though she knows she's in the wrong. It's different for boys - for them, the Academy is an honor, not a life sentence. One or two of the prettiest ones might get sold, but the rest who aren't good enough for the games just spend a decade in the penal mines and get to live the rest of their lives as free men.

Sequin glares. "Why are you arguing with me? You want to win, don't you?"

Divine pauses, and ponders. The Academy has given her the skills to survive what she encounters in the arena and what inevitably comes after, when she will be at the mercy of any Capitol pervert who has the cash to borrow her for the night. But does she want to win, to live? Is a life in slavery a life at all, or would she be better off dying in the arena, while her body still belongs to her?

It doesn't matter, she decides. She's screwed either way, but Sequin still has a chance, slim as it may be. Divine will do everything in her power to make sure Sequin never has to suffer the same fate as countless girls before her.

"Of course," Divine says. "And if it saves you, even better, I guess."

There's a pregnant pause. Sequin makes a pained expression and steps forward - for a terrified second Divine thinks she's going to hug her - before turning quickly, leaving without another word.

* * *

 **District One Male**

 **Blaze, 17**

* * *

 _Twenty-three, twenty-four..._

Blaze's muscles scream for release, but he holds, searching his body for the strength to heave his chin up over the bar one last time. He's got it in him, somewhere, he just has to find it, ignore the pain, and rise above.

He pulls himself up one last time. Then his hands release the bar, his feet dropping onto the mat below. Clenching and unclenching his cramped fingers, he sits down on the bench and takes a swig from his water bottle. The ache in his arms and shoulders begins to recede.

Blaze is the strongest tribute in his age group, by far. Best with weapons, too. Seven years of training, and he is one of the finest volunteers the Academy has ever produced. He is confident in his abilities, but skill isn't everything when it comes to the games. There are so many variables - the arena, the traps, the other tributes, to name a few - that he can't possibly prepare for all of them. He wishes he had another year to train and prepare, maybe learn some more strategy, but that choice isn't his to make. Besides, his sister may not have that long.

It's been three years, to the day, since he's last seen or heard from Starshine. She, and all the other sixteen-year-old girls who didn't make tribute that year, left the Academy after the Reaping. Before she went, she pulled Blaze aside and told him the truth about the Academy. The girl washouts don't just get to go home to their mommies and daddies; they get sold into the sex trade to be owned and used by any Capitol man who can afford them. That was a lot for him to take in at fourteen, but still she continued, explaining that Blaze would probably suffer the same fate if he washed out, due to his extraordinary looks.

"That's why you have to be the best." Starshine had told him, her bright green eyes filled with fear. "You have to be the chosen volunteer, and you have to win. That's the only way you can be safe. Promise me you'll do it, Blaze."

He had promised her, and he worked his ass off and beat out every single person in his age group to make it to the top, but not without realizing something along the way. Starshine had lied to him. Becoming a victor didn't just mean winning a shiny crown, like the Academy had always told them; it meant owing a debt to the Academy, to his sponsors, and to the Capitol that he would be paying off for years, until his body was no longer desired and there were fresh, new victors to take his place. But it also meant he was protected, unlike the trafficked Academy washouts who are expendable enough that a couple can fall through the cracks every year without so much as a whisper of protest. That's why Starshine had urged him to aim for volunteer. If he wins, it will be a better fate than he would have as a washout. And if he loses... well, it will be a quick end, compared to a life in sexual servitude.

Losing means never seeing Starshine again, and that isn't an option. As a victor, he could use what little favor he had to free his sister. That has been his goal these past years, his single driving force; he has to save her.

A presence by his side snaps him out of his contemplation. He looks up and, seeing it is a trainer, stands immediately.

"It's time, Blaze." She says. "Come with me, we need to get you ready."

* * *

 **District One Female**

 **Divine, 16**

* * *

Divine spends the next hour getting her hair and makeup done by Capitol-trained stylists. They're more heavy handed with the makeup than what she's used to in image training, but it's not unbearable, and the result is stunning. Then, they squeeze her into her Reaping dress. It's black and glittering, barely grazing the top of her thighs, with quarter-length sleeves and a deep neckline that puts her ample cleavage on display.

The train ride from the Academy to the Justice Building is short, and when they arrive, it's a couple minutes past seven. Divine signs in and heads to the section marked for sixteen-year-olds. Behind her, a non-career complains loudly to her friend how early in the morning it is, and Divine sneaks a glance over her shoulder to look at her. She's pretty, and from her clothes Divine can tell she is also rich. She probably has an influential parent who's in good with the Academy, because there's no other way she'd avoid being selected.

Divine looks away, clenching her fists. She was that girl, once, for a short time. Her father had been an influential man in the district, until her mother had gotten him executed. The moment he was out of the picture, the Academy had swooped in, snatching up Divine and her sister. Too pretty for their own good, Mom had said. She would know; she'd been selected, too, and after she washed out she spent years being sold in the Capital before their father had bought and married her.

"Attention, attention."

The speakers project the escort's voice across the crowd. Divine listens throughout the speech, but it's the same thing from last year. And every year she can remember. Finally, they get to the good part, and the name is picked.

"Melanie Markham." The escort calls, and the loudmouth from earlier sucks in a shocked breath. How ironic. They then ask for volunteers, and Divine debates dragging it out, just so she can enjoy watching this brat panic, but decides against it.

"I volunteer!" She cries out, clear and confident, like she has practiced countless times. She gives the camera her best smile and saunters onto the stage, taking her place beside the escort.

"Oh, aren't you beautiful!" The escort says, like she's never seen a tribute from One before in her life. "And what is your name?"

"Divine." Divine says sweetly. Her eyes meet the camera briefly, a suggestive smirk on her lips. The Capitol will eat that shit up.

"Well, isn't that just - well, divine!" The escort says, and laughs at her own horrible joke. Divine is playing the dumb whore role, District One's specialty, so of course she giggles along with her. She imagines the sponsors salivating and opening up their wallets. Concentrating on how this will help her in the arena later makes it almost bearable.

* * *

 **District One Male**

 **Blaze, 17**

* * *

Divine plays her part like a professional. Every aspect of her pristine image, from the way she stands and smiles to her little black heels, screams sex. It's so convincing, Blaze almost wonders if it isn't all an act. Of course, no sixteen-year-old girl would willingly and happily strut herself around like that, showing off her body like it's for sale - though, in this case, it is - and even though he sees it every year, it still makes him sick to his stomach. She shouldn't have to do this.

"And now; the boys." The escort trills, dipping a sparkly clawed hand into the second bowl. She unfolds it and reads the name. "Travis Duncan!"

Blaze keeps his eyes planted firmly on the stage, in case the camera catches his face as it pans down to view Glint, standing directly on Blaze's left. It's weird to hear his birth name after so many years of knowing him as Glint. Really, it's always strange when someone from the Academy is called, and even more so when they're standing right next to the chosen volunteer. What are the odds?

The escort calls for volunteers. Loud and clear, Blaze answers: "I volunteer!"

That's all there is, only two words. No countdown, no gong, but it feels like the games have begun all the same.

* * *

 **District One Female**

 **Divine, 16**

* * *

Divine sits alone in the Justice Building room, reclined on a velvet couch with her bare feet resting on the coffee table. Her high heels were taken off and thrown onto an armchair the moment the doors closed behind her. She picks at the lacquer finish of an end table to her left with a perfectly manicured finger. It comes off in satisfying little chunks, but the small act of vandalism isn't enough to keep her mind off her loneliness.

She had hoped her mother would visit, but as the minutes go by that seems less and less likely. There's so much Divine would say to her if she had the chance. Nothing nice, though, probably. But as the minutes go by, any hope of a visitation seems less and less likely.

Just as she finishes coming to terms with the fact that some things are better left unsaid, the door opens.

It's Mom. Who else would it be? With conflicting feelings of rage, nausea, and confusion bubbling up inside her, she holds her mothers gaze and tries to look stronger than she feels.

"You'd better make it quick." Divine says. Her eyes flick over to the clock, and back to her mother. "You've got a little more than a minute. Couldn't make up your mind if you wanted to come or not?"

"No, I couldn't," Mom answers. The door closes behind her, but she just stands there, looking at her. "Snow, you grew up beautiful. I'm sorry."

"For?"

Mom frowns. "You know what I mean, Hannah."

Divine can tell her mother is trying, she really is, but Divine is having none of it. "Yeah, I do. Sorry for giving birth to me, and what else?"

"This is about him. Your father." Mom says, like it physically pains her to say it. "He was a terrible, terrible man, Divine. You know that."

"I do." Divine sits up, resting her elbows on her knees. "Just like you knew what consequences his death would have for Mina and I. He was the only thing standing between us and the Academy, and you framed him for treason."

"I don't regret what I did! He deserved everything he got, and more! The things he did... I had to put an end to it!" Mom cried in her defense, tears spilling over. "You don't know what it was like!"

"But I might soon!" Divine hollers, standing abruptly. "And Mina, too! You stupid bitch, don't you realize that? You saved yourself, but you damned the both of us!"

Mom flinches backwards like Divine might hit her. She wants to, she really does, but all the anger in the world couldn't blind her to the fact that her mother truly is sorry. Not for what she did, but for how it hurt her children.

Divine doesn't know what she expected. An apology? It's too late for that now, anyway. It doesn't matter. Time runs out. Her mother leaves.

* * *

 **District One Male**

 **Blaze, 17**

* * *

Blaze had been on good terms with his parents when he left for the Academy, but it's been seven years, and he understands that they don't want to see who (or what) he has become. It's fine. A lot of careers don't get visitors, anyway.

If he's being honest, there's only one person he really wants to see, but that's not possible. At least, not yet.

So he sits alone, trying his best not to think about what lies ahead.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **It took a while (almost three months!) but I finally managed to update my story! I will have another one posted sometime this summer - maybe two, if we're lucky. So far, my desire to sit around and do nothing all summer has defeated any ambition I may have had to finish this story in a timely manner. That's just how it is.**

 **Blaze was submitted by FrlBarth, and Divine (whose backstory I rewrote)** **was submitted by ilookhotinblack.**


	4. District Three Reaping

**District Three Female**

 **April Stout, 14**

* * *

April wakes to a sudden shift of weight on the bed and a soft hand stroking her cheek.

"Good morning, my little sunshine," Her mother, Ursa, croons. April blinks groggily, the glow of her mom's pale skin barely visible in the near-darkness of the bedroom.

"Good morning!" April answers. She attempts to sit up and hug her, but her younger brother, Arthur, is still asleep and clinging to her torso like glue. It feels like his little body is a million degrees. Sharing a bed with a mini-heater is nice during the winter months, but seeing as it is July, April feels like she could overheat any second.

"Hey, booger, get off," She says, moving to rub his head but hesitating as she thinks of how sweaty it will be. Gross. "You're so hot, I'm going to explode."

Arthur wriggles a bit and holds even tighter, giggling.

"Let go of her, Arthur," Ursa chides. "We know you're awake!"

Ursa reaches toward him, and begins to tickle his bare stomach. He howls in laughter, releasing April and scrambling to escape their mother's clutches. As soon as she is free, April pulls back the sheets, letting out a dramatic sigh as the cool air hits her legs. Before she can thank her mom for rescuing her, she is startled by a thud, as her brother rolls off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Ursa scoops him up as he begins to cry, silencing him with a squeeze.

"No crying!" April exclaims. "Pain makes you stronger, but crying only makes you sad."

"You sound just like your father." Ursa laughs. "Do you remember any of the other silly things he used to say?"

"I don't think so. Only stuff like 'Go on bed, April' and 'Don't touch your brother, April' and 'For Snow's sake, do ever stop talking, April?'"

Her smile falters. It's been three years since her father, Roth, died. She doesn't think about him much; she likes to think of happy things, and a lot of what she remembers of him is sad. On days like the Reaping she always feels his loss more profoundly than usual. He was there to see her first Reaping, but died only weeks later. As hard as it was for him to speak, he still tried to comfort her, telling the story of his own first Reaping. His name was in the bowl not three times, like April's, but seven. Knowing the odds were against him, but he still lived to meet mom and have her and Salus, made April feel a little less scared.

"I miss him, too." Ursa whispers, pulling April into a hug. Her mother smells like factory smoke and cheap soap, which doesn't sound like it would be pleasant but it's familiar and makes her feel safe. April holds her mom tight, wondering how, with hundreds of thousands of moms in the world, somehow she was lucky enough to end up with the best one.

Arthur, still in Ursa's arms and now squeezed between mother and daughter, ruins the moment by squawking: "I gotta pee!"

April breaks away from the hug, and Ursa puts Arthur on the floor, giving him a pat on the behind as he runs out of the room, presumably to the toilet. Ursa leaves to make breakfast, telling April to start getting ready. April pulls open her bottom drawer, carefully removing her Reaping dress, still folded neatly from last year.

The yellowed lace pinches under her armpits and is too tight across her chest, but save for the small discomfort, it's as lovely as it was the year previous. The pale blue fabric matches her eyes, and makes her ginger hair stand out. She twirls in front of the cracked mirror, and smiles. It might not fit next year, so she should enjoy it while she can.

April takes a scrap of faded plaid fabric off her dresser. She doesn't have any pockets, so she pushes it down the front of her dress, right above her heart. It's a piece of the shirt her father wore when he died. Her mother and brother them one, too. It's morbid, sure, but in a family that's too poor to own a camera or pictures, it's all they have to remember him by.

Now that she is alone, April realizes how eerily quiet it is. The familiar hum of machinery and the roaring of passing trains outside the apartment has all but ceased. She knows some of the factories shut down the morning of the Reaping so the workers can be with their families, but the silence still makes her uneasy.

Thankfully, it doesn't last long. "Toast is done!" Her mother calls.

April sprints into the kitchen to claim her slice before Arthur uses up all the butter. It's not real butter, to be exact, but she likes to pretend. It almost works, if she ignores the plasticky aftertaste.

"Remember when Wiress won and we got to have real jam?" April asks as she munches her breakfast.

"You don't remember that!" Arthur says. "You were only a baby!"

"I do too remember! It was blueberry!"

"You don't even know what a blueberry is! You've never had one!"

"Let's not fight today, alright?" Ursa says, wiping pretend-butter off Arthur's cheek. He's five, but still eats like a toddler most of the time. "It's the Reaping day. Be nice to your sister."

April wants to talk more about the blueberry jam, but she listens to her mother. Ursa works afternoons, evenings, and long nights to take care of them. April knows to be grateful that she wakes up to see them every morning, even though she is tired and could be sleeping. It's the only time they get to see her, so April is on her best behavior.

She decides to change the subject. "I hope we have another victor this year. And I hope there will be lots of fruit in the parcels! Things like blueberries, and..." She pauses, struggling to recall the name of the fruit. She's only ever read about them in books, anyway. Everything in Three is artificial, unless you're rich enough. "Mum, what are the little purple things?"

"Grapes, sunshine. In the District One, they make them into wine."

"I wish we lived in District Eleven, so we could have all the blueberries and grapes and other things we wanted!" April says. She thinks about what it would be like to climb trees and eat real fruits all day. It sounds like more fun than sitting in a desk and taking tests.

Ursa frowns. "No, you don't. Remember what you read in school? The outer districts are very poor because they are disloyal to the Capitol."

"Poorer than us?" Arthur pipes up, mumbling around a mouthful of toast.

"Probably." Ursa says. "Chew and swallow before speaking."

"Oh." April says. Her mood is dampened only momentarily before she brightens up again. Like water off a duck's back, her father used to say, though neither them have ever seen or will ever see a duck in their whole lives. What it means, he told her, is that the bad things in life don't weigh down on April like they do on other people. He says it's because she's special, but some of the teachers say she's just "simple," which is a nicer word than dumb, even though they mean pretty much the same thing. They also call her "high-strung" and "hard-working" and "enthusiastic," so even if she is dumb and doesn't get very good grades, it's okay, because she's a dozen other good things.

Three sharp raps on the door to the apartment draw April's attention. She stands up, swinging it open to welcome her friend, Lennox.

"Good morning, April," He says formally. "Good morning, Mrs. Stout. Pleasure to see you."

Ursa sighs, but returns the greeting with a smile. April stifles a laugh. Lennox has lived next door to the Stouts since he was born, but still insists on calling Ursa a Mrs., like she's a stranger or an old lady. Ursa has long since given up on trying to get him to change.

"Nice tie, dork," April says, tugging it so it's skewed to the right. With a huff, he readjusts it to its former state. He's smiling, though. April knows he likes it when she teases him.

"Would you like some toast, Lennox?" Ursa offers. She hands Arthur his textbook, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. He's only in kindergarten, so he has one book. Once he's April's age, he'll have to carry a whole bag of them.

"No thank you, Mrs. Stout," Lennox says. "You are very kind, but we will be late if we don't leave soon."

"They won't punish us if we are, though." April observes. "Because it's the Reaping Day."

"If school is only until 8:30 today, why do we have to go?" Arthur whines.

"Two hours is still enough to learn something!" Ursa says. "Now get going, all of you! The Peacekeepers may not come after you for being late today, but I will!"

April does a mock salute. "Yes, Ma'am!"

Ursa playfully swats her and plants a big wet kiss on her cheek before pushing them all out the door.

* * *

 **District Three Male**

 **Halon Baxter, 18**

* * *

Halon brings his pen down, only to scratch out what he has written once again. He's been at it for an hour, and all he's got to show for it are a dozen crossed out apologies and a couple holes from when his pen tore right through the paper. Everything he writes sounds so _wrong_ , and he's out of ideas. Not for the first time today, he curses himself for putting this off until the last minute. Normally, he has no trouble managing his time and getting things done, but this last farewell is something he had almost planned on skipping for the longest time. As the Reaping drew nearer, though, he realized that his family at least deserved an explanation for what he was about to do. So he tried to write a speech.

If he wants them to forgive him, to understand, and to be able to live the rest of their lives in peace, he doesn't need a speech. He needs a games-damned miracle.

Zero, lying faithfully at his side, raises her head and barks, signaling someone approaching the door. Halon places his hands on the desk and pushes himself into standing position, brushing the papers into the trash.

"Can I come in?" His uncle, Mikas, asks through the door.

"Sure."

Mikas shuffles inside, facing the floor with his hands in his pockets. As the door clicks shut behind him, he sighs, looking up at Halon. There are tears in his eyes.

Halon has been close to his uncle since he was young. Mikas owns a company that develops virtual reality programs for the Capitol, and Halon always enjoyed watching him work. He's a good man, and he is the only person Halon has told about his plans because he knew he would understand and respect his decision.

"Please tell me you're not going to try to change my mind." Halon says. "I'm going to need your help down there."

Mikas sighs, wiping away an escaped tear with the palm of his hand. His voice is rough, as if he's been crying for a while. "I'm not, kiddo. I've got your back. Always."

Halon has never been the weepy type, but seeing his uncle in such a state makes it hard to keep a straight face. He manages to maintain his composure, and gives his uncle a hug.

"Thank you." Halon says. "For everything."

"You're a brave man, Hal. Braver than I'll ever be. I hope you find what you're looking for."

They pull apart, both of them teary-eyed. That was the easy part. It won't go nearly as well with the rest of his family, he's sure.

Before they leave, Hal looks around his study one last time. This room has been his home for the past couple years, especially so in the last few months as he began to isolate himself, hoping to ease the blow when the time came. It's strange, knowing this may be the last time he ever sees it.

They make their way down to the living room in silence, neither of them having much else to say. Hal grows more nervous with every step they take, until they finally turn the corner and greet their relatives in the living room.

It's a big room, for a big family. Halon shares the house with his mothers, Sira, and Mauve, and Mikas and his five daughters. The triplets are only three, not yet school age, while the older twins are thirteen. They're sitting on the couch, braiding each other's hair in preparation for the Reaping. Everyone is in their finest clothes, including Hal himself. As one of the wealthier families in Three, there has never been a need to take tesserae, so Hal and his cousins don't have to worry about having their name pulled.

"Hal, there you are!" Mauve says from an armchair by the window. Sira sits in her lap, smiling as her wife massages her shoulders. "Come say goodbye to the girls before they leave for school."

Hal has to tell them now, or not at all. "Actually... I've got something to say to everyone."

"Oh, a Reaping day speech?" Sira says. "Go ahead, honey, we're all listening."

The room quiets down. All eyes are on him, waiting for him to begin. Hal swallows his inhibitions and speaks. "I'm dying. You know that. They told me two years ago that I had four years to live, if I was lucky, and the process of decay has already begun. First my muscle tissue, and my bones, and then my organs, withering away until I finally die."

Sira looks confused. "We know that, honey. We're grateful for every day we have with you."

"I know. But that's not how I want to go out. That's not how I want to be remembered," Hal takes a deep breath. "And that's why I'm volunteering today."

"What?" Mauve looks at him blankly, struggling to compute what he has said. "Honey, I don't- is this a joke?"

"It isn't. Whoever gets called today, I'm stepping up and taking their place."

"We had no idea you were this unhappy." Sira says, rising from her seat. Oh, Snow, she's crying. "You don't have to do this, honey. There are other options. I know the treatments have been hard, and if you-"

"No, you don't get it. I'm not trying to kill myself. This isn't about the treatments." Halon interrupts. "This is about being... something, something more than wasted potential. All my life, I've had so much _potential_. I was going to be the best scientist this district has ever seen! Then I was diagnosed and they told me I would be nothing. Nobody. This is my last chance to be something great."

"You already are something great!" Mauve says as she stands to go console her wife. "You're our son, our proudest achievement. We're not ready to see you die yet, honey. Please, just drop it, you're upsetting your mother."

"I'm not changing my mind. I've been planning for this for almost two years, watching games footage, memorizing statistics, crafting strategic plans for different arena types. I'm better prepared than any Three in history to win these games." Hal says. "I have a chance. Anything the arena has in store for me can't possibly be worse than what I'll be facing down the road."

That last part isn't true, at least not entirely. Hal has watched every Hunger Games in recent history, hoping to learn from the mistakes of countless others, and in the process has witnessed more horrors than anyone should in a lifetime. He's seen the unforgiving arena give children slow deaths through dehydration, starvation, and infection, and swift ends from tsunamis, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions. He's watched deadly muttations, engineered to be more vicious and abominable than anything found in the natural world, tearing live tributes limb from limb. Arguably the most terrifying of all are the careers. They're trained, ferocious, killing machines, with no sense of empathy whatsoever. After watching Enobaria's games, the goriest in history, he began to doubt that they were human at all. If the odds are at all in his favor, he'll at least be spared a slow, agonizing death being tortured and mutilated by a bloodthirsty career.

"Wait, Dad, is Hal really going to do it?" Mikas' oldest daughter asks. "Is he nuts?"

"Far from it." Mikas says. "He's a hero. He's making a sacrifice, so some kid in Three can live a long, full life."

"And what about Halon's life?" Sira snaps. "What about my little boy?"

"I already have a death sentence." Hal says, trying his hardest to hold back tears. It's impossible. How can he watch his mothers cry and not cry along with them? "Adding another one on top of it isn't going to make a difference to me."

"But it will to someone else. Someone else, and their parents." Mikas adds. "He'll be saving their life."

Sira is sobbing, now, hurling accusations at her brother while simultaneously pleading for Hal to change his mind. It kills Hal to see his moms like this. He's got to get out of here.

"I- I'm going to go," Hal says, slowly backing away. "I'll... see you after the Reaping."

He leaves, not looking back once, even as his mother screams for him to stay.

* * *

 **District Three Female**

 **April Stout, 14**

* * *

There is only time for April's first two classes, Science and Mathematics, before they are all let out of school and herded onto the trains heading for the town square. April stands with Lennox and some other kids their age. One of them, a girl named Maxine, is clutching a wrinkled paper to her chest and crying. April barely knows her, but doesn't like seeing her upset.

"You'll be alright," April says, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your name is only in there a couple of times, and there's so many kids in Three! I'm sure you won't get picked."

"That's not what I'm worried about!" Maxine wails, shoving the paper into April's hands. "Look at it! I only got ninety-one percent! At this rate, I won't even qualify to _take_ the Exam, much less pass it!"

April stares down at the number, stamped in red by some grading machine. She has never scored above an eighty in her life, which makes Maxine's grade look incredible in comparison, but with the Exam to worry about, April understands her concern. The Exam is everything in District Three. It's ten hours long, taken over a period of two days, and has hundreds of questions. Every sixteen-year-old who qualifies to take it, and passes, gets to continue in school until nineteen, when they'll get some high-paying job as a researcher in a lab or something. Everyone else goes straight into the factories. April's parents, grandparents, and probably even great-grandparents were all factory workers, and she has no doubt that she will follow in their footsteps. Maxine is different, though. She's a genius, and has a real chance of being something important someday.

"You can't let one grade get you down! You've scored near-perfect on all the other tests." April reassures her. "The Exam is years away. You're the smartest person I know, you'll be fine. Breathe. Smile. And try to stop crying, you're gonna be on camera soon!"

Maxine sighs, wiping away her tears as the train comes to a stop. "Thanks, April. You're such a sweetheart."

The doors open, and any response April might have had is drowned out by a hundred shuffling feet as they all exit the train and file into lines to be identified and sorted into their age groups. It's like being on a production line; stab, scan, check, move along, repeat. Finally, it's April's turn to have her finger pricked, and of course it stings, but it bleeds a lot, which is strange. Once she's moved into her roped-off section, she sticks it in her mouth and sucks on it, hoping to staunch the bleeding, but it's no use.

"Do you have any tissue?" April asks the girl to her left, who shakes her head. The girl on her right doesn't have anything, either, so April keeps her finger in her mouth throughout the Capitol video and speech. She doesn't want to get any blood on her dress.

"Are you ready, District Three?" The escort shouts, trying to get the crowd excited. It's a lost cause; in the five minutes it took to get through the speech, the whole crowd has grown hot and cranky. The heat is relentless today, even more so than usual. April finds herself growing impatient with this whole process, which is unlike her.

Sensing the crowd's energy, the escort skips the theatrics and dips her hand into the glass bowl, pulling out a single paper slip. "Your female tribute for the 66th Hunger Games is... April Stout!"

April's finger falls from her mouth with a loud pop as her jaw drops.

That's her name. That's her, she's going into the games. She takes one step forward, but it feels like her shoes are filled with lead. She doesn't want to go. She wants to watch Arthur grow up, and grow up herself and have a family. A family that she can work for and love as hard as her mother works for and loves her, even if it means long days and longer nights and factory smoke that turns your lungs to mush. She wants a future.

April doesn't want to die, but she's got to start moving forward before the Peacekeepers come after her and drag her up to the stage, and maybe kill her family for putting them through the trouble. So she walks, trembling hard but not crying, all the way onto the stage. The escort helps move her into position, smiling big and fake even as her make-up melts off her face in the heat.

April faces the crowd, squinting through the hot desert sun like dozens of little girls before her. It always has to be someone, doesn't it?

* * *

 **District Three Male**

 **Halon Baxter, 18**

* * *

They call a ginger-haired girl in a dress that's too small for her as the female tribute. Definitely not ally material, but Halon wasn't planning to team up with his district partner, anyway. He already has the brains, and he needs to find some outlier with the brawn.

If he can't manage to find a suitable ally, his chances of survival will be cut in half- and that's just one of many variables he has to worry about. His mind buzzes as he goes over his plans, his odds, trying to convince himself that the benefits of volunteering outweigh the consequences. He somehow manages to miss the name of the male tribute that is chosen, but a piercing wail from the twelve-year-old section shakes him out of his daze. It's a young boy, hardly more than a child, which is the best he could have asked for. He'll look like a hero, now, stepping up and taking his place. In the eyes of the Capitol, anyway. The rest of the district will probably see it as a suicide.

"Any volunteers?" The escort asks. From the tone of her voice, it's clear she doesn't expect there to be any.

"I volunteer!" Halon shouts, raising his hand as he does, so the cameras can find him quickly. His heart is beating a million miles a minute. Maybe it's because he's anxious, or he's been standing in the sun too long, but he's starting to feel dangerously woozy.

The young boy on the stage drops to his knees, sobbing impossibly harder. His words are unintelligible, but if Halon had to guess, he's thanking him. A woman far out in the crowd screams. Whether it's Halon's mother or this boy's is impossible to tell.

"What a wonderful surprise! Come on up onto the stage, then." The escort says. She turns to the Reaped boy, now freed of his death sentence, and shoos him away. "You can go, now. Go on."

Halon begins his procession in to the stage, trying to ignore the bewildered whispers of the crowd. It's somehow even hotter up once he gets up there. This had better be quick, or Hal is at serious risk of collapsing from heat stroke, as some people in the crowd have surely done by now.

The escort shoves the microphone into his face, almost lacerating his cheek with her nails. "What's your name, young man? And how old are you?"

"Halon Baxter." He says. Another gasp runs through the crowd; that's a surname almost everyone in Three knows. "I'm eighteen."

"Well, Halon, I think I speak for everyone when I say I can't _wait_ to learn more about you." She says. "At a later time, then. District Three, I present to you: your tributes for the 66th Hunger Games!"

* * *

 **District Three Female**

 **April Stout, 14**

* * *

April starts crying as soon as she's in the Justice Building, but she's only alone in the room for a couple seconds before her mom comes storming in, carrying a sobbing Arthur on her hip even though he's too big for that. Ursa wraps her free arm around her.

"Oh, sunshine, my brave little girl," Ursa whispers. She's not crying, but from her voice April can tell she's going to. "I love you so much, so so much, I'm sorry I can't save you from this."

"I love you too, Mom." April says. "It's okay. Lennox can watch Arthur after school when you're at work, he promised me. It was a couple years ago, I don't know if he remembers, but-"

"You're gonna die!" Arthur wails, climbing down from his mom's arms to hug April around the waist. "They're gonna kill you! They're gonna kill you!"

"Don't say that!" April sobs. "I'm going to be fine. No matter what, I'm always with you, okay?" She takes the skirt of her dress in her hand, ripping off a strip of blue fabric and handing it to him, even as her hands shake. "See? Like daddy's shirt. As long as you have it, I'm still with you, even if I'm not right there."

At this point, it becomes too much for Ursa, who begins to sob. Watching her mother cry pushes April over the edge, and the rest of their conversation is mostly incomprehensible crying as the small family holds each other close, not wanting to let go.

* * *

 **District Three Male**

 **Halon Baxter, 18**

* * *

Halon's mothers visit him first, alone. Sira walks into the room on her wife's arm, her chin high, but the façade crumbles once she lays eyes on her son. Mauve whispers something in her ear, and Sira stays quiet.

"We have always supported you in everything you do." Mauve says. Her voice is calm and strong, though it is clear this is hard for her. "But not in this. We both believe you have made a terrible mistake."

"I already told you-"

"I'm not finished!" Mauve snaps, her voice cracking on the last word. "I'm trying to say that we love you, Halon. We could never hate you, even for doing something like this to us. What's done is done, and we just want you to come home safely."

He can hear the anguish he is causing her in every syllable. This was supposed to be the easy part. He'd pulled away and withdrawn so far in preparation for this moment, hoping the goodbye would be somewhat easier because of it, but almost two decades of love and care can't be undone in a couple of months. They still love him now as much as the day he was born, and they'll love him just as much when he dies.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." Halon says. Now he, too, is on the verge of tears. "But this makes sense for me. I love you both."

"Oh, Hal!" Sira finally speaks, throwing herself into his arms. "We're going to miss you so much!"

The door opens, and a Peacekeeper walks in, signaling their time for goodbyes is over. Mauve gives him one last squeeze before taking Sira's hand and guiding her away. Thankfully, she doesn't put up any sort of fight, and goes peacefully. Halon almost wishes he could go with her.

After that, Mikas and the younger girls come in. The twins are both crying as they kiss him goodbye, but the triplets are thankfully young enough that they don't understand what's going on. Only one of them is fussy, and if that smell is any clue, it's not because she's sad to say goodbye.

"Just do your best, kiddo." Mikas says. "Hopefully that's enough."

With any luck, it will be.

* * *

 **A/N: Another update, right on schedule! This was a long one (more than 5k words!) and I really hope you guys enjoyed it. I know I enjoyed writing it!**

 **I'm not one to beg for reviews, but I wanted to be totally transparent and let you guys know this upfront: if you're not reviewing at all, your tribute is not going to be the victor. If you haven't shown any interest in the story, I think it's fair for me to assume** **you don't care if your tribute wins or not, right?**

 **What did you think of the tributes?** **April was submitted by Elim9, and Halon was submitted by Blade Is My Penname.**

 **The next chapter** **should be coming up August 8th!**


	5. District Four Reaping

**District Four Female**

 **Leila Nettskip, 17**

* * *

The girl in the bunk above her, Marita, wakes up every single morning at twilight to go pee. Leila knows this because she shakes the whole fucking bed going down, and wakes her up every time.

This morning, she was counting on the disturbance. As Marita pads away on her bare feet to exit the cabin, Leila throws off her blanket and starts changing into her training outfit. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to tie her running shoes in the dark, when Juana comes in to wake the girls.

"!Levántense, chicas!" She sings, clapping her hands. "¡Hoy es la cosecha, como ya saben!"

She is met by a couple of groans, mostly from the newest trainees. Leila rolls her eyes. It's a hard transition, but it's not like they didn't choose this. School ends at sixteen, so anyone involved in the after school "athletics" program makes the choice either to drop and get a job, or move into what they call the Den. It's the headquarters for career training in four. Only a dozen girls and boys make the transition every year, and at least half leave after a couple of months. It's not that the program is particularly strict, or even difficult, but a lot of them realize pretty quickly that they're not willing to sacrifice their life for their district.

For most people, moving into the Den means saying goodbye to their families for as long as they're planning to continue training. Leila is unlucky enough that her family lives just a couple miles away, and she can jog there easily in half an hour, so she has no excuse not to visit. That's where she plans on heading today. Her mother likes to get her ready for the Reaping, even though Leila is old enough to do it herself.

Leila finishes up and leaves the cabin, walking down to the main building to sign out. Then she hits the road.

Running is very therapeutic for her. Even when there's others around, there's not a lot of talking, which means Leila can drop the act for a while and resign herself to her miserable thoughts. Pretending to be pleasant all the time is exhausting, especially when everything everyone does makes Leila want to shatter their jaw. When it's just her and the dirt road, there's no reason to pretend to be nice just to get what she wants.

Dark clouds are gathering in the sky, bidding Leila to quicken her pace so she will be home safe before they unleash their downpour. Unfortunately, she's not able to outrun them, and she's completely drenched by the time she reaches home.

She stands in the doorway for a minute, peeling off her muddy shoes and wringing the water out of her long dark hair. The house is quiet. Where is her mother?

"¡Mamá!" She shouts, walking into the kitchen. "¡Estoy aquí!"

There's a loud bang as her mother, Esperanza, knocks the heating curling iron off the stove. She backs away quick enough to avoid burning her foot, but still lets out a string of curses.

"You scared me, mija!" Esperanza cries, putting the curling iron back on the stove. She looks over at Leila and shrieks. "You're soaked! What am I going to do with your hair?"

"You can still curl it, right?"

"No, no, no, it's bad for it when it's still wet." Esperanza hands her a towel from the counter. "Start drying it, I'll go get your dress."

Leila quietly obeys, knowing better than to voice her opinions on this whole bizarre ritual. She is more than capable of making herself presentable, but her mother insists on dressing her up every year like she's still a little twelve-year-old getting ready for her first reaping.

Esperanza returns, gingerly carrying something in her arms covered in thin pink paper. Leila can't help it; she throws back her head and groans. "I've told you at least a hundred times this month that I do _not_ need a new dress," She says. "How much did that cost?"

"That doesn't matter, just look at it." Esperanza removes the wrapping and holds out the dress for Esperanza to see. It's white, unsleeved, and about mid-calf length, decorated with lace throughout. It must have cost a fortune, or at least way more than Esperanza can afford. Since Hector, her husband and Leila's father, disappeared on a fishing trip, money has been very hard to come by. The lack of available funds is about the only effect his absence has had, if Leila is being honest. He had been gone for most of her childhood, out at sea fishing, sending the occasional paycheck back home to the wife he didn't really love and the kid who he kind of disliked. Those paychecks were the only reminder of his existence they had, most of the time.

"You shouldn't have bought this." Leila says, reluctantly taking it. "The old green and yellow one fits fine. This is a waste. I'm only going to wear it today, next year, and then never again."

Esperanza shifts her weight from foot to foot and clasps her hands, a clear sign that she has something else up her sleeve. Leila narrows her eyes. Noticing her expression, Esperanza fesses up.

"I thought, since mine will be too small for you, that you can wear this one for your wedding, when you get married."

And there it is. As if her mother would ever do something nice without the ulterior motive of having Leila settle down, get married, and have a job. Leila would like nothing more than to explain, for the thousandth time, that she's not ready to leave the Den, but it would be a waste of time. Esperanza simply cannot comprehend the notion that Leila wants more out of her life than domestic misery. For her mother, it's not a life of suffering, but of content.

"Still a waste." Leila says. It comes out sharper than she intended, but she really is holding back. "But I'll still wear it, since you bought it." Begrudgingly, she adds, "It's very pretty."

Leila goes into her old room to change out of her wet training outfit and into the dress. It fits alright. She slips on the dress shoes lined up on the floor for her, and then goes back out to show her mother.

"You're so beautiful!" Esperanza says, wiping a tear from her eye. "Too much muscle in your arms, but that's okay. You have time to soften up."

Wait a second. "What do you mean, I have time? For what?"

Esperanza holds Leila's hands in her own, beaming. "Remember Eduardo? The nice, handsome boy from down the road? He has become a very successful merchant in town, and his parents say he is looking to marry."

This is not happening. "You set me up? To get _married_?"

"Please lower your voice. You're seventeen, almost eighteen. All the other girls your age have gotten jobs already." Esperanza calmly explains. "It's time to grow up."

"You don't get to make that choice for me!" Leila shouts, swatting her mothers hands away as she tries, in vain, to calm her. "No, don't touch me. I can't believe this!"

Esperanza sighs, looking disappointed but not angry. "I felt the same way when my parents and Hector's parents had us marry. But marriage means stability, a home. You will do well as a merchant, you are so personable. You will understand someday."

Esperanza is a simple woman with simple needs. She's content to live with nothing, as long as she has someone who she loves to share it with. Leila is not her mother, and she never will be. She has too much fury and frustration and unjustified hatred to ever be content with marriage, a nice job, or (Snow forbid) children. She's tired of the act. She needs a way out, right now.

"If you think that's actually going to happen, you're insane." Leila begins to back away. "Absolutely _fucking_ delusional."

Her mother winces at the curse, taken aback by Leila's sudden hostility. "What has gotten into you? I'm only doing what is best for you. You can't speak to me that way!"

"You have no idea what I want, or what's best for me! I'm happy at the Den. I like it there." Leila says. "I want to fight, not settle down. If you can't respect that, then... I have nothing else to say to you."

Leila turns swiftly, storming out of the house and back into the rain. Her mother calls after her, but stays in the doorway. Leila ignores her and continues trudging through the mud, and eventually Esperanza goes back inside.

There's an old man down the road who owns a truck. He'll give her a ride to the reaping, she's sure.

* * *

 **District Four Male**

 **Quillon Valez, 14**

* * *

They get the morning off, but that doesn't mean Quillon isn't in the weapons room training as soon as the doors are unlocked. He can get plenty done on his own without a scheduled lesson.

He goes for the largest sword and gives it a couple swings. The weight of it is familiar, calming. He has always preferred this weapon over the others they have available for training at the Den. Normally the trainees go for the tridents or harpoons; a bit cliche, but it has worked well for Four in the past. Quillon doesn't come from a fishing family, so he had no familiarity with those weapons to begin with, and no desire to specialize in them. Technically speaking, the sword is a more versatile and effective weapon, anyway.

He practices a few maneuvers on the straw dummy, focusing on his form. He's started to work up a sweat by the time Marlin and the twins, Zyan and Jorge, come in. Quillon stops, turning to face them, the sword still clenched in his hand. The blade is dull from years of use at the Den, but it is still a deadly weapon.

"I thought I was very clear yesterday," Marlin says, crossing his arms. "You're wasting your time. I'm going to volunteer this year. Then, Jorge next year, and Zyan the year after that. You'll age out before you have a chance."

It has been years since Marlin has held any power over him, but his voice still sends Quillon back to a very dark place in his memory. He spent a year as a victim to Marlin's gang of bullies. Their ruthless abuse corrupted his mind and turned him into a different person. He's spent he last four years getting his revenge, making their lives as horrible as he can. Now, there's only these three left.

"You're wrong." Quillon says. "It's going to be me up on that stage today."

Marlin rolls his eyes. "Over my dead body!"

Quillon pauses, deliberating. Marlin looks at him, and at the sword in his hand, and takes a very small step back. He's so afraid, Quillon can smell it. The twins exchange a look, probably considering whether they should stick around or make a run for it.

"If that's how you want it to be, then..." Quillon takes a step forward.

Marlin shakes his head. "You're crazy, man. Are you serious right now?"

"It's not like you wouldn't deserve it. You know you do."

"You've got to let it go, already! That was years ago. We were just kids." Marlin sounds desperate. "Haven't you done enough already? When will this end? When will you be satisfied?"

One day, when he was twelve years old, Quillon crawled home broken and bloodied. His mother sat with him, treating his wounds for the fourth time that week. As she reset his shoulder, something in him snapped. He stopped crying, and started screaming, demanding justice. _Revenge is a slippery slope_ , she had told him. Her warning fell upon deaf ears. He had already fallen.

Quillon thinks back on Pablo, the youngest of the bullies and the first to crumble. Quillon stalked him for weeks, promising to kill him whenever he had the chance. The kid lost his mind, and eventually attacked his brother one night when he mistook him for Quillon, breaking into the house to kill him. His brother hit his head off the edge of the counter and died, and Pablo was taken by Peacekeepers and never heard from again. After Pablo was Miani, strong physically but easily corrupted mentally. Quillon convinced him the Peacekeepers were out to get him. Miani stole a boat and made a break for it one night, but was caught in a storm. His corpse turned up in a fishing net a couple days later.

"Two down, and three to go." Quillon says. "I'll be _satisfied_ when you're as completely and utterly and destroyed as you made me."

One against three. He's had worse odds. He lunges, swinging the blade in a wide arc. Marlin dodges low to avoid it, as predicted, and Quillon lands a kick in his face. Marlin falls flat on his back, and Quillon kicks him in the head again to make sure he stays down.

Zyan and Jorge go on the defensive, moving in sync. Quillon has been the receiving end of their punches for long enough to learn how they work. They go together, or not at all. He has to target one of them and take them down, and the other will soon follow.

Jorge makes the first move, getting in close so Quillon can't use the long sword as easily. He punches and misses, while Zyan moves to attack from behind. Quillon focuses on deflecting Jorge's blows, and purposefully leaves an opening for Zyan. He takes it, and Quillon spins, hitting him hard in the chest with the flat side of the blade. Zyan goes down, clenching his side.

"Stop, I'm done, just stop," Jorge says, raising his hands in surrender. "You shattered his fucking ribs, let me help him."

"And what about all the times I asked you to stop?" Quillon yells, pointing the sword at Jorge's throat. "I must have begged you monsters hundreds of times, and you never once listened. Why should I listen to you?"

"We were kids! We were fucking kids, you crazy son of a bitch, we didn't-"

Quillon hits him in with the butt of his sword as hard as he can, and Jorge drops like a stone. Zyan shouts, and moves to tend to his brother, but Quillon kicks him in the head and knocks him out before he gets there.

It takes him about ten minutes to tie them all up and throw them into the supply closet. The adrenaline rush continues until he closes the door behind him. Quillon tries to keep a straight face as he walks back to the boys cabin, but he's so happy that it's almost impossible. He imagines their faces, their horror as they awake in the dark and realize they won't be able to escape in time to attend the reaping. As everyone knows, missing the reaping is a crime punishable by death. They'll each have bullets in their heads by the end of the day.

It's justice, plain and simple. They killed him, and he came back as someone different, someone unstable and hostile and horrible. People fear him the same way they would fear a rabid animal, and sometimes he thinks they may have a reason to. It doesn't matter. They killed him, and now he's killing them.

* * *

All the girls get to ride in Juana's van to the reaping, safe from the rain, while the boys are stuck in the trunk of Ernesto's truck. They've got nothing but a huge tarp they pulled off a leaky shed to protect them from the elements, and even that has a hole in it. Underneath the tarp, it's dark, cold, and damp, and everyone is so focused on holding it down and trying not to fall on top of their neighbor at every turn that nobody notices the missing trainees. It's not until they arrive at the reaping and start unloading that the counselor decides to do a quick headcount and realizes they're three short.

It's too late for them to go back to the Den and search for them - they'd risk missing the reaping themselves - but when when they find out who is absent they will inevitably make the connection to Quillon. It's not like they can do anything about it, with the reaping just twenty minutes away. While they do a recount, Quillon slips out of the group and into the line to be registered.

When he enters the square, the downpour suddenly stops. He looks up, and the skies are a clear blue, without a cloud in sight. It must be some kind of Capitol climate control. Now Quillon's clothes might have a chance to dry before he goes on stage.

Once he's moved to his spot with the other sixteen-year-olds, Quillon looks around, and spots Finnick standing with the other victors. The youngest victor in history, winner of the shortest games, and possibly the most arrogant tribute Four has ever had. That kid made the 65th a year to remember, and Quillon can't imagine what the gamemakers will pull this year to try and live up to it.

They've got a new escort this year, a man with blue hair and some kind of pattern tattooed on his skin. He's as obnoxious as the last one, and wastes a couple minutes gushing over Finnick before pulling a name from the boy's jar.

"Francisco Perez!" He calls, grinning wide and exposing his gem-laden teeth. "Congratulations, come on up!"

Most years in Four, when someone older than sixteen is reaped, there won't be a volunteer for them. The kid that's reaped this year is definitely older than sixteen, and physically fit, the kind that would usually go into the arena without a replacement, but that doesn't matter to Quillon. After what he did to Marlin and the twins, it's the games or life as an Avox for him.

The escort asks for volunteers, and Quillon responds immediately. "I volunteer!"

He hears a couple of grumbles from the section behind him. Quillon doesn't look back, but he's almost positive it's the boys from the Den, probably thankful that he's finally going to be put down in the arena. He'll show them.

He'll show them all.

* * *

 **District Four Female**

 **Leila Nettskip, 17**

* * *

Leila isn't surprised when Quillon is the one to volunteer. She mostly knows him by reputation, but has sparred with him a couple of times in training. He's good with a sword, very aggressive, but has a lot of issues upstairs. Who is she to talk, though? She's been living a lie for years.

And it's not going to end anytime soon, unless she does something about it. As the escort welcomes Quillon onto the stage, the gears in her head start turning. Yes, she could always volunteer next year, but why wait? Back to back victors from the same district are rare, but they're always male and female pairs. Considering how popular Cashmere and Gloss are, the Capitol might be eager to have a set from Four, as well. Finnick and Leila. Could it work?

Quillon is obviously not in control, mentally, and that can get you killed easily in the arena. Right off the bat, the other careers are going to put a target on his back, because you never know when a ticking time bomb like that is going to explode. Leila is pretty sure he doesn't stand a chance.

This could be her year, if she plays her cards right. Of course, that would mean gambling with her life, but she's already made up her mind about that. Leila would take a bloody death in the arena over a life of domestic slavery any day.

None of the other female candidates are particularly strong this year. Leila is Four's best bet for a victory. If they call a girl younger than 16, she'll volunteer. If not, she'll wait and go in next year.

The girl who is reaped, Selena Alvarez, can't be a day over thirteen. Leila waits patiently for her cue, and says very proudly: "I volunteer!"

She's tired of her mother, of her fake friends, and of smiling when she wants nothing more than to punch everyone in the face.

This is her escape.

* * *

 **District Four Male**

 **Quillon Valez, 16**

* * *

His mother, Alanna, and father, Santiago, come to visit him afterward. Quillon hasn't seen them at all since moving into the Den almost a year ago. They live pretty far away, almost a day by foot, so he could never visit, even if he wanted to.

"It's good to see you, son," Santiago says, giving him a firm clap on the shoulder. "This was, uh, quite the surprise, but we're very proud of you."

That was... really weird. He's not upset at all? Quillon had expected disappointment, if not anger from him. Santiago is a businessman first, and a father and husband second, and has always loved Quillon as his son, but not really as a person. He was mostly absent during his childhood, even more so during his early teenage years, but last Quillon checked he still planned to hand over the family business to him someday. What changed?

"You're not upset about my decision? What about the business?"

Santiago laughs, shaking his head. "Of course not. It's a great honor to have a volunteer in the family. And as for the business, your cousin, Fernanda, is more than happy to take over the reigns once I decide to retire. She's quite the businesswoman."

Quillon nods, but remains uneasy. He senses something that his father is not saying. Regret, possibly? Does he wish he had spent more time at home, getting to know his only son? All his father knows of him is from before, when he was young child with spunk and courage. Quillon may be his son, but he is a stranger to Santiago.

"Be careful, mijo." Alanna says. There are tears glistening in her eyes. "I love you very much, and I hope you come home to me."

His mother has always loved him, and believed there was something left of her little boy in him, buried deep down inside. There must be, because seeing her cry makes him uncomfortable, and... sad?

"I will return to Four, I can promise you that." He answers.

Alanna frowns, clinging tight to her husband's arm. "I miss you, still. Please come back."

Quillon realizes now that she isn't talking about him coming back from the games as a victor. She wants her little boy back, the one who cried when he pulled the hook out of the first fish he caught because he didn't want to hurt it, and laughed endlessly at his own jokes, even if they never made any sense.

Quillon may remember who he used to be, but that doesn't mean he can ever go back to who he was. He has caused the death of five boys, even if he does not have their blood on his hands, even if they deserved it. In the arena, he will kill many more. Murder is not something you can come back from. Even if he does win, he will not come home as the person his mother wishes him to be.

* * *

 **District Four Female**

 **Leila Nettskip, 17**

* * *

Leila can hear Esperanza crying before she can see her. It's a terrible sound, and it only gets louder when she opens the door and enters the room.

"Mi bebita, qué has hecho?" She cries.

"Quiet!" Leila hisses. "And speak Standard, or the Peacekeepers are going to come in here and and drag you to prison."

"They can take me, then! I can't live my life alone!"

At this point, Esperanza throws herself onto Leila, who has to reach back and stable herself on the table to avoid toppling over. She stands stiff as a board as her mother cries into her shoulder.

"This is what I want." Leila says. "Maybe not what you want, but I don't care. It's my life, and I want to make something out of it."

"But I will have nobody, nothing!" Esperanza pulls away. Leila takes a step back and crosses her arms, just in case she changes her mind and feels like invading her space again.

"Maybe you should have had more kids. I'm sure you could have tricked at least one of them into being a miserable homemaker like you." Leila shrugs. "Get remarried or something. I don't care. Just please leave, so I can move on with my life."

"Why are you acting like this? How can you be so cruel and selfish? This is not who you are, mija."

"It is who I am." Leila says. "And if it's cruel and selfish to want what I want and not care how anyone else feels about it, then, I guess I am. I'm not doing this to hurt you, I'm doing this for me."

Thank Snow, the three minutes end, and Esperanza leaves. Leila sits down, and waits for the train to arrive and whisk her away to the Capitol.

* * *

 **A/N: A day late, but still an update! I really like this district. As you may be able to tell by the names and the language, I headcanon Four to be located along the coast of what was once Mexico.**

 **I changed the alternating POV's a bit for this chapter, combining Quillon's pre-reaping and reaping. It's just how things worked out, and I will probably change back to the old format for the next chapter.**

 **How were the tributes? They may not sound like someone you would want as a friend, but they sure are interesting! Leila was submitted by Tribute00, and Quillon was submitted by DaughterofTigris.**

 **Check my profile to see when the next update will be. Thanks for reading!**


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